Psyche
by Emma CS Me
Summary: Heaven, hell, Earth, you've made your choice already. Although you're still not sure how that translated to the fact you're lying on the exact same bed with Beaver freaking Casablancas crawling all over you.


**PSYCHE**

When you receive the invitation to Shelley Pomroy's Valentine's Party, your first instinct is to go kill her. Because your never going to go to another one of her parties again and your just mad because she dares to host another one, which Logan will force you to go to because Logan cannot just leave you fucking alone. You prays Veronica won't show up again, because you really doesn't want to go to hell. Then you remember it's too late for that, so you wonder why you're even bothering. If you're going to hell and may be there already, why would you even care about what you might do next? Heaven, hell, Earth, you made your choice already.

When you're at the party, you're not exactly sure _how_ much tequila translated that into the fact you're lying on the exact same bed with _Beaver freaking Casablancas_ crawling all over you, but you're fairly sure it doesn't matter that much. He doesn't fuck a thing like her; Veronica was all sweetness and doe eyes and fairytale-dreams, but now Beaver is grabbing you and biting and his eyes aren't soft at all, and you're almost proud that you made Beaver _stop_ with the trademark puppy-dog eyes.

"Ow," you whimper as his teeth sink into your neck, and you can _feel_ him smirking. He tongues the imprint he left as he squirms a little more on top of you, hand reaching for your jeans and fuck, does he ever stop moving?

"Aw, sorry D. Don't you like it like this?" he mocks you, and you avoid looking at him, instead choosing to look at the garish pink and red crepe paper Shelley has strung all over her guest room ceiling, and you _really_ want to kill her. "I wouldn't care, just, y'know, Veronica and all that."

You wince at the mention of her, of the implication of the last time you were on this bed, and your eyes focus harder on the crepe paper above you, and the feeling of Beaver's laughter against your neck becomes slightly more hysterical. He leans up slightly, and starts to run his tongue across your lips. "Was she like this? Did she give it up easy? Did she do it hard, fast, make you make her come, then leave you like that?" Beaver's chuckling against your lips and you're still refusing to look at him, but when your zipper goes down and his hand is finally on your cock, you let out a somewhat embarrassing moan. _Fuck him._

"_Answer me,"_ he instructs you harshly, and you're beginning to wonder what the fuck is up with him. You realize you really don't give a shit.

He squeezes at you harder, and you're struggling to keep from thrusting to the touch. "I've... I've heard about her, you know. She'd love it, of course. Wild slut, but of course you know that." He's slowly sounding more and more delusional, but the insults anger you enough to look him in the eye, then you flip him over so you're on top.

You see the panic in his eyes for maybe a split second before he forces it to fade, and you grind against him, trying to imitate the same sort of anger he had. "You don't know Veronica."

Beaver laughs loudly, and the more rational, less condemned-and-tequila-addled part of you wants to tell him to be quiet, because you really don't _want_ Dick to break your neck.

"You don't know the first thing about anything," you warn in a whisper, and he shudders a little, arching his back.

"I know more than you," the sentence starts out taunting but quickly fades to a quiet despair, even as he's running his fingers over your chest. He shakes his head at you.

"Shut up," you tell him, and you're wondering why you're doing this and why everything is so fucked up. He rolls his eyes and groans as you undo his jeans, but you see that flicker of panic from before again.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, "Nothing," but the word comes out less than convincing. He moves up against your hand, and his face is starting to crumple. "Come on," he whispers, "Get on with it."

You do so, even as you see the expression on his face, telling you he's holding back sobs. The touch seems practically obscene now, just _awful_, but you've bought your ticket to hell anyway.

You lean down and bite into his neck _hard_, just like he had to you and he gasps. He stroke him harder and faster and he gives a small cry when he comes and his semen splatters all over you.

At that, he's kind enough to sit back up and force you with him, then he crawls on to your lap. He's barely concealing the wobbling of his bottom lip, even as he rubs against you, and when he finishes you off you have to choke back a sob too.

He doesn't talk when you're done, and for that you're thankful, because you think words would mean you have to go kill yourself. He darts of the bed and easily slides back into his clothes, and he's almost got the pain and fear in his face as secure as it was when you started, and you wonder if you'll see the puppy-dog eyes.

You don't have the energy to do anything but just lie on the bed, and Beaver doesn't look at you when he leaves. You sigh and think, somehow, you've fucked up even worse, even though you didn't think that was possible. Your eyes run over the bright paper flowing from the ceiling, and you wonder who turned the flames of hell pink.

**END**


End file.
